Imagine
by KaterMuffins
Summary: Drabble. Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie pairing. Ryan's just a child. He likes to live in his Imagination.


Eyes close, tears drip for the one boy he knew he would ever love. It felt selfish; millions went though this every year. What made Ryan special enough to cry and weep and stop life? Brendon. Because without Brendon, he was nothing. He was not a guitarist or singer, not a lyricist nor a poet, and he most certainly was not human. Because Brendon kept Ryan grounded. Without him, gravity, along with sanity, would float away, leaving him to whisper desperate memories to imaginary friends.

Because he was a therapist of sorts, more available in so many ways, always there for Ryan when a breakdown came on or the drugs took over. In retrospect, he really was more, as few people were willing to make three a.m. runs to the wrong side of town for a nickel bag, pulling money from their own wallets unquestioningly, when they'd much prefer to sit at home and convince you how little you needed the drugs. But Brendon knew, he understood what happened to Ryan when he didn't have them. He'd seen the masochistic turns that his body would take; he'd heard the wars that waged inside him spit from his mouth in Ryan's own nonsensical language; he'd felt fear seep through his bones, cold and unforgiving, as the shell of his best friend tore the world apart; he'd tasted, too, that fear, not cold like ice cream, but cold like a tainted needle piercing his tongue; he'd smelled the blood trailing from the bed sheets to wherever Ryan had finally lost consciousness. All five senses in experience gave Brendon all the convincing he needed.

Because Brendon was the only one who believed him when the voices talked. Many nights were spent, Ryan curled up on Brendon's lap, sobbing into his shirt, relaying all the messages that _they _spoke in his head. When he finally either calmed down or passed out, usually the latter, Brendon would call a **real **therapist, someone who could show Ryan ink blots and order the exact combination of chemicals that should make him better based off his answers.

It was hard to believe, after all the years of therapy before his parents gave up, and long talks on the playground before his friends gave up, that Ryan wanted to get better. Even Spencer, an inseparable partner from diapers, eventually diagnosed him as insane and left him to his own devices. It was in high school, thirteen year old Ryan, to smart to be stuck in seventh grade, with his mysterious ways, attracted the attention of a certain Brendon (and no one else). Something about the way he walked, his head always hung down as though hiding something, or the way he never talked, even to answer questions in class that earned him this interest.

But getting what he wanted wasn't an easy feat. Days of summer heat, perfect for the basketball that Brendon was great at or the baseball he knew he needed work on, shut up in a room, blinds always closed, watching Ryan draw, listing to an occasional remark. It was almost a year later he finally opened up; Paranoid, sobbing, he had called Brendon around one a.m. and began rattling off the problems like clockwork.

After sharing all this with Brendon, and only Brendon, the news that he was gone forever was not something Ryan took easily. Denial was a step he never quiet skipped, though anger was most prominent at first. Throwing things, hitting people, threatening everyone all the while profanities, accusations, and harsh words dancing from his mouth.

_What would Brendon do?_

That was always how they tried to get Ryan back to Earth, but it never seemed to work. Occasionally, someone would stop by the apartment to check on Ryan, only to find him sitting in Brendon's room talking to him, or on the phone with absolutely no one saying things they didn't understand. No one wanted to give up on him again; to wait for another Brendon to come along and watch him destroy himself in the meantime, but for those that are mentally unstable to the degree Ryan was, there's not much that can be done.

Unless you're magic. And Brendon was magic. He was patient, caring, and he never judged. All he wanted was what was good for Ryan. He wanted him to be happy, to get well. And, in Brendon's opinion, all that would take was patience, caring, and an open mind. In the doctor's opinion, all that would take was little white capsules, bandages, and a woman with a clipboard to ask him how he felt.

Naturally, Ryan liked Brendon's approach better.

The one thing all of them, every white coated quack that had ever analyzed, evaluated, or explored him had said that he was _gifted_.

Ryan had always refused this title. He didn't want to be gifted. So he wasn't. That's just how things worked in Ryan's world. That's why he lived there. Because in his world, things worked out like it would in the story books. It was just happily ever after upon happily ever after. It involved much less thinking and much less getting hurt; Just the way Ryan liked it.

Brendon agreed with them on this, but he used the word _imaginative _instead.

Because Brendon knew, Ryan liked to live in his imagination. Brendon knew Ryan's world was infininetly more peaceful, which is why he let him live there. Outside the sheltered walls of his skull, Ryan had real problems to deal with. Ryan had compound issues from a therapists' wet dream. He had old scars that he couldn't ignore. People stared. When he reached out to get something, his sleeve would shrug up and Ryan would have to deal with violent flashbacks of sharp objects. Brendon knew.

Now especially, Ryan was in his imagination.

Day in, day out.

Routine.

_Imagine _he wakes up to Brendon's voice calling him cheerfully out for pancakes and plotting to drag him around town for berry smoothies and new shoes. That Brendon can't wait to watch some new chick flick tonight and that, as Ryan stretches, trying to wake himself up enough to know what he is doing today, he is already gushing over the actors and what flavor popcorn was best for this mood, which will inevitably be anything that will get him crying by the end.

_Imagine _that Brendon poufs his hair, tweaks his jacket, and leans down to tie his shoes looser before standing back and smiling at his work. The words are flowing from Brendon's mouth at a hundred miles an hour about how cute Ryan looks, praise he craves. His reward for putting up with the day to come.

_Imagine _that he just watches, bemused, as the supposed boy, Brendon dances from store

to store, giggling and trying on clothes. Ryan only laughs lightheartedly at the claim **she** makes every time. Gotta look good for the paparazzi.

_Imagine _that Brendon gets tired quickly, a kid simply on a candy high, and runs off in search of fuel, i.e. a Starbucks. As he orders his drink - Strawberries And Cream Frappuccino, extra whip cream, Venti - Ryan's yawn will echo, his head will lean on Brendon's shoulder, his eyelashes will bat, and he will murmur, 'I'm tired,' before Brendon takes him home. A classic move.

_Imagine _as they curl up on the couch, the movie already starting, that plush pink lips fall on Ryan's forehead lovingly. Not officially dating, but close enough. The warmth flows through the entire room, encasing them both in an oversized security blanket; Ryan knows he's safe tonight.

_Imagine _its eleven o' clock, Brendon sound asleep as the credits play on screen, and Ryan pacing the floor as the warmth and security fades. He's afraid to wake Brendon, he is so peaceful it seems almost a sin to do so.

_Imagine _Brendon will wake anyway, fetching what Ryan needs quickly. He keeps the drugs locked somewhere else so there is no chance of over dose. The needle, already filled, will inject heroin into Ryan's veins with only a little pinch on entry and give him his almost immediate high.

_Imagine _Brendon takes him to bed carefully as he nears his crash in the early hours of the morning. Everything in between blurry, but Ryan can always remember Brendon's lips to his own as he whispers goodnight.

Close eyes. Pass out. Repeat.


End file.
